Can you teach yourself to paint? - Peter Delahaye

 I taught myself to paint. So the answer is yes. Or is it?

Painting at Lago Di Misurina

I painted with a friend up in the Dolomites in February this year. I had extra paper and paintbrushes, shared colours and water. He didn’t know he’d end up spending the morning painting but the day was glorious and the landscape around Lago di Misurina magnificent. We sat at a café table for a couple of hours, pizza and spritz spurring us along. He produced a fairly competent painting, albeit guided by me. Step-by-step: first a light pencil drawing to get the composition right; then the addition of blue for sky, bringing down the colour to an almost white horizon, and dabbling in small clouds with a tissue which he found fun; then a battle ensues in the palette to find the greys and browns of the mountain sides, but with a little wax suggesting the steep angle of the slopes; and finally, mastering how to make the rocks stand out, with shadows on surfaces not receiving direct sunlight. He posted a photo of the final result on Facebook with the proud words “My first painting”. He was 43, and going off to get it framed by a friend. Three days later, back home in Austria, he bought his own watercolour set.

Will he continue to paint? “I think I need your aura to paint” was his comment to me a week on. I jokingly retorted that I expected to see a painting a day from him. He may have downed brushes, but three paintings later suggest he’s hooked.

So what does it take to start from scratch and keep at it, to muddle through hundreds of failed or unsatisfactory attempts to become a serious, well-rounded painter? I’ve met those with fine-art post-graduate degrees under their belt who have quit on painting. Apparently even three or five years of professional tuition doesn’t guarantee you’ll make a career of it, or even continue painting as a hobby. I’ve also met those at the other end of the spectrum who are convinced that they could never paint, even if taught. So is drawing or painting an innate ability? I don’t believe so. Is it a fear of the white page that inhibits? Possibly, and I still suffer from fear of making the first mark! I believe anyone can paint if they practice.

Naif Painting Campo Dei Fiori

I first painted in Rome back in the late 1990s. In the aftermath of the African Summit for Children I took ten days off, and photographed every angle of the Campo di Fiori square from my high-up, rented terraced apartment. Location, location, location. But something inside me, albeit a little voice, said “There must be more”. Three hours later I found myself staring into the window of the Zecchi art shop and came away with the basics to then paint for the next four days. I had never held a paintbrush in my hand. Gazing at complex shapes of overlapping buildings, I was at a loss to find perspective, and having no sense of chiaroscuro, failed completely to find shadows that fell as the afternoon light dimmed. Some of you may remember that I hung these “early works” in my New Delhi office, as a personal example of finding a “work and play” balance.

Cotswolds countryside

So what does it take to stick with it and learn to paint on one’s own, and become really accomplished? The key, to my mind, to staying the course, is having a flagrant desire to experiment so that eventually even complex subjects are enjoyable to tackle. When I mentor, and as I show in the video Blue Storm that you’ve perhaps seen earlier on this blog, I get newbies to cover a white sheet with wet-in-wet watercolour. Just make a mess! This creates “marvel” and “magic” even though nothing figurative emerges yet. This gives a sense of awe in “look what I’ve just done!” There has to be awe in creating colour combinations and mark making. There has to be a continual delight in experimentation. My early works were all collaged pieces, without knowing that collage had long been in existence. Later come notions of tone and value and composition, choice of medium and colour theory. There has to be a daily enquiry about what’s happening in the art world, whether through gallery and museum visits, online searches for, say, “new British landscape painters” or by listening to other artists explain their studio practice or artistic evolution.

Edge of the Venetian Lagoon

There must be an enquiry about how paintings are made. What’s the medium: watercolour, oil, pastel, collage, a mixture of everything? Why such a format? And a desire to render and interpret, whatever the subject: lemons in a bowl on a sun-filed window ledge; a river’s edge; an interesting face half hidden; or a vast landscape that seems to go on forever.

Gradually, over time, you may develop a “style” of painting that suits you and you stick with that. Not necessarily, though. Highly experimental painters, like Gerhard Richter for example, can work on small photo-realistic works while tackling huge abstract canvases, building up an immense lifetime body of work. Learning never stops. During Venice’s second lockdown I challenged myself to learn how to paint portraits. This most demanding of disciplines is made harder when using watercolour as the medium. Nine months later, and two of my portraits I’ve submitted to the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition in London – slim chance of getting shortlisted with 16,000 entries – but I’m proud of my self-learning curve.      

In conclusion, learning to paint takes you beyond just the creative act and love of mark making: you can heighten your sense of observation of your surroundings; bond with others in outdoor or studio events; identify with artists whose work moves you emotionally; and develop a detailed knowledge of art history and movements. You’ll acknowledge your growth and recognize that exploring your creative side has made you immensely richer. Immensely richer!

So next time you have a desire to photograph something beautiful, as I did in Campo dei Fiori in Rome, think again. Have a go and paint it as well!